Reflections of a 
Moose Hunter 

By Joseph Stowe Seabury 





0^% 

Class ^iViiiX 
Book !_SiJt- 



Gop^iightlS"- 



COFVRIGHT DEPOSm 



REFLECTIONS 
OF A MOOSE HUNTER 




Courtesy o/ Mr. C. J. Hawkins 



For two hours Mr. Hawkins, the photographer, prevented this moose 
from making shore. After several pictures were made of the bull swimming, 
he was allowed to go ashore, where he immediately collapsed in the grass, 
utterly exhausted from his compulsory exercise. This portrait was then 
easily taken 



REFLECTIONS of a 
MOOSE HUNTER 

<iyf personal resume of the serious^ picturesque^ 
and droll aspects of life in the moose country^ 
with photographs by the author and others 

®y Joseph Stowe Seabury 



PRIVATELY PRINTED 




9)^ 



Copyright 

by Joseph Stowe Seabury 

1921 



THOMAS TODD COMPANY 

'Printers 

BOSTON • MASSACHUSETTS 



0)CI.A614861 



To 



MOSES DAVIDSON 
C. HALE REID 

AND 

ROBERT ROSS 

three sturdy, skillful woodsmen, who have 
conducted me on many happy journeys 
through the silent forests of the north, 
this little work is cordially inscribed. 



INDEX 

PAGE 

To Whom It May Concern 9 

The Birth of a Notion 10 

A Tragedy of the Woods 14 

The Moose Crop of New Brunswick 16 

Little Helps for the Beginner 24 

73 Asked — 44 Bid 26 

From Whence Cometh My Help 32 

Dialogue 23 

What the Stars Did 37 

The Moose 40 

A Tribute 41 

My Mountain 46 

Many Are Called, but Few Will Come 47 

Tout Seul 5^ 

The One Defence 67 



APOLOGIA 

A T a glance these pages are seen to include a wide 
/ \ diversity of themes and treatment. Without 
^ J^ apparent sequence or provocation I have jumped 
from the substantial to the trivial, from the sublime to 
the jocose. Facts, fancies, events, and pleasantries are 
jumbled together and displayed in promiscuous verse and 
prose. However, I am sure the sportsmen who visit the 
woods and waterways appreciate these extremities of in- 
terests and find them to be the sum and substance of ex- 
hilarating days and cozy evenings. This little book, for 
the most part, is nothing more or less than a hetero- 
geneous collection of personal impressions and simple 
achievements jotted down in the distant hunting camps of 
New Brunswick, where visions, however superficial, are 
plenty and constant. While many have met with greater 
successes in big game shooting than I am able here to 
record, few perhaps would bother their heads to tabulate 
such trifling occurrences and casual conceptions as I have 
assembled. 

My annual excursions to the silent forests and the 
rippling rivers of Canada have given instruction, sport, 
amusement, and rest. I have been my own bookkeeper, 
so to speak, and entered on my ledger the receipts of joy- 
ful experience. The investment has proved a wise one ; 
I have cut my coupons of happiness and health, and each 
year extra dividends are declared. 

For my photographs I claim no credit, but to the 
neophyte they may indicate what any one can do with a 
little pocket kodak. Such results as are achieved by Mr. 
Chauncey J. Hawkins, the big game photographer, few 
of us may hope to equal, and to him I am grateful for the 
use of one or two views. y g g 

Weston, Massachusetts 
May, 1 92 I. 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 




Superb head taken in 1917 ; spread, 64^ inches 




Widest known New Brunswick moose head, shot 1917- W idth, 72 inches 

8 



TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN 



TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN 

TO him who on occasions goes for business or for 
fun to the quiet forest places where the little 
rivers run, and the moose call from the barren, 
and the spotted ospreys make the windy, hissing noises as 
they dip across the lake; where a million stars are hidden 
by a shaft of northern light, and the gentle winds at sun- 
set are the organ chords of night, this collection is com- 
mended as a message from the land where visions glow 
like sunshine — and he will understand. 

My text and illustrations are designed to represent 
the pleasures, the successes, the mirth and discontent, the 
ecstasy of mountains — with autumn coming round, the 
atmosphere of color, the symphony of sound. Every 
gladsome inspiration, every fancy, great or small, comes 
on when one goes forth alone, or comes on not at all. If 
poets, then, must saunter to write about a bird, you too 
must saunter or, forsooth, you will not grasp a word. 

So, these my simple episodes, impressions and delights, 
gathered and recorded In the woods on autumn nights, 
are for him and only him who loves the moose tracks in 
the snow and the solitary places of the forest where they 
go. 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 



THE BIRTH OF A NOTION 

I WAS a lad in my early teens when the great inspira- 
tion came. The brief holidays in what I loved to 
consider the wilds of Maine were at an end, and I 
sat in the Pullman gazing thoughtfully out the window, 
picturing again and again the few deer I had seen on this 
my first visit to the woods. Like most boys I then began 
to feel keenly the delight in wild things, the mysterious 
wonder of life in the back country, and the desire to 
return again and penetrate those desolate places. Re- 
hearsing and exaggerating the tales of the guide, em- 
ployed for me on two or three occasions, I told myself 
little wild stories of would-be adventure in February 
drifts, trapping bear and shooting big deer with heavy 
antlers. That bear hibernated and deer were protected 
by law in that particular month of the year, I had yet to 
learn. 

It was late September. The procession of summer 
tourists had stopped its noisy parade through the Range- 
ley Lake region and was turning back to home and office. 
How I hated their careless, gregarious chatter about golf 
and cards and steamboat trips. I held aloof and believed 
myself very superior. Did none of them see the joy of 
striking off alone with an old backwoodsman to sleep in a 
distant log camp and at evening watch the fishhawks and 
the deer? They seemed to miss the true significance of 
the country; they failed to recognize the most conspicuous 
pleasures of the woods; they pursued the same interests 
common to Manchester or Scituate. Frightfully stupid 
and silly people ! I, in my wisdom, had found what I 

lO 



THE BIRTH OF A NOTION 



called the real purpose of the existence of forests; a home 
was thereby provided for wild birds and big game. These 
woods, therefore, gave discerning folk a chance to live 
along with nature and observe her mysteries and beauties. 
I had seen some deer, and a track in the mud that the 
guide said was made by a moose! I think I was stuck on 
myself. But I was quite happy. 

A gentleman of about fifty, intelligent and agreeable, 
seated in the chair next to me, shattered my carefully 
built castles by asking whether I had been in the woods. 
With bold confidence and a thrill of boyish delight, I 
launched forth on a description of my rare and wild ex- 
periences with a guide on an overnight trip miles and miles 
from the hotel. We had seen some deer and a moose 
track! The gentleman appeared deeply interested and 
after quietly asking several further questions, to which I 
made prolonged and graphic replies, I ventured to inquire 
if he had ever visited the wilds of Maine. Then it was 
that I first heard straight dope from a man after my own 
heart, a man from the city who had done the big thing. 
Though a dozen (or two) years have slipped by since 
that meeting on the Boston train, I can recall his story 
almost word for word. 

"Every September," he said, in a tone of simple sin- 
cerity, as if I and not the other returning vacationists 
could appreciate, "I leave the business and society of New 
York, and bury myself In the wilds of New Brunswick on 
the Miramlchi. For eleven months I slave and worry in 
Wall Street, and respond to the social demands of city 
and seashore life, and for one month I make an utter 
change of the weary program. No other solution of the 
vacation problem is possible for me. Golf at the club, a 
motor trip with the family, and week-end visits in the 

II 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 



country are all well and good, but they don't give the 
complete re-creation. To be truly rested up, I must 
leave behind me the ticker, the telephone, newspapers, 
motors, good clothes, razors, and all. Then I am free to 
rest and hunt and forget. All my affairs I get in shape, 
pack up the old duffel, and slide out for a month with the 
big game in the Canadian wilds." 

To say I was now all ears is mildly putting it. And 
my delightful friend rambled on with a sort of indiffer- 
ent leisure, as if his theories and episodes were too precious 
to put much stress upon. 

"Two friendly woodsmen — guide and cook — meet me 
at the little station on the Miramichi, and the change 
begins. From then on I listen to different talk, see dif- 
ferent sights, and do different things." 

From his pocket he drew a little notebook, much worn 
and filled with dim scribbllngs. "Here's my diary. I 
jot down Impressions, observations, and records of game 
encountered. For Instance: 'September 17, 6 moose, 4 
caribou, 6 deer, fox. September 18, 5 moose, 3 deer, 
bear, eagles, etc' " And then he told of the trophies 
hanging on the walls of his country house on Long Is- 
land, and the satisfying success of the hunt that now had 
come to a close. 

All the way to Boston he talked and I listened. When 
It was time to separate, he took me warmly by the hand 
and said something about the pleasures of telling his story 
to one who appreciates. He said, too, I think, that I 
would be just the sort of man some day who would love 
such a trip to the wilderness. In that I felt he was right. 

As the shooting seasons have come and gone, how many 
times I have thought of this agreeable New Yorker, who 
helped guide my ship of sport up the wild streams in the 

12 



THE BIRTH OF A NOTION 



MiramichI Country of New Brunswick. It followed that 
on a dozen or more occasions I have slipped away, as he 
did, to see the golden colors of the autumn woods and 
look in upon the big game of those distant haunts. Who 
he was I never knew. On visits to the Province, I have 
made inquiries, but no one could tell anything definite 
concerning a rich Wall Street banker who came each year 
to hunt the Miramichi waters. He may have died, or 
perhaps he turned his attention to other game fields. I 
wonder whether he has ever seen my stupid things on 
moose and deer! If he gets hold of this expose perhaps 
he will turn up. 



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To whom this book is inscribed 



13 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 



A TRAGEDY OF THE WOODS 

I 

Through the pale tamaracks 

There are caribou tracks, 
Where the herd has gone down for a cruise ; 

And from here to the Pole 

It's a hell of a hole 
In the vale of the River Renous. 

2 

A little old man — 

So the story once ran — 
Packed in with supplies and some booze, 

And along went his son, 

Who carried the gun, 
For a hunt on the River Renous. 

3 

In a fortnight the lad, 

Looking dreadfully bad, 
Stumbled into a camp with the news 

That his father was lost, 

Just after they crossed 
Some branch on the Upper Renous. 

4 
He was nervous and numb, 
So they gave him some rum ; 

And the Jacks from the lumbering crews 
Were willing to go 
In the wind and the snow 

To search on the River Renous. 

14 



A TRAGEDY OF THE WOODS 



5 

No word could they bring! 

'Twas a pitiful thing 
That a man should go hunting and lose 

His way in the woods, 

With only the goods 
That would do him a week on Renous. 

6 

On November the fourth 

A storm from the north 
Brought them back to their work with the crews; 

The drifts were too deep 

To look for lost sheep 
In the vale of the River Renous. 

7 

At last came the day 

Towards the middle of May 
Some trappers came down in canoes, 

And reported they found 

In the desolate ground 
Several leagues to the north of Renous, 



The skull of a man — 

And a buUethole ran 
(The size that the boy used to use) 

Clear through the man's head — 

And so he was dead 
Before he was lost on Renous. 



i5 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 



THE MOOSE CROP OF NEW BRUNSWICK 

FIFTEEN thousand people will shoot in New Bruns- 
wick this fall. Twenty thousand more people will 
take care of them. From the mere fact that game 
abounds, employment is given and money is spent. Rail- 
ways, steamship lines, hotels, camps, guides, teamsters, 
and the treasury are indebted directly to game for big 
profits. Do we wonder, then, that the game laws are 
carefully contrived? 

We know the number of licenses granted and the num- 
ber of animals shot and reported, but who can estimate the 
residents who shoot continually or occasionally without 
official permit? Neither the vigilant warden nor the in- 
quisitive sportsman will ever learn the amount of big 
game annually killed by back farmers, who wander off 
at will to their familiar hunting ground at any and all 
times of year. When beef is high, and venison is waiting 
in the adjoining wood, we can hardly blame the poor 
farmer, who, doubtless, is thinking more of his needy 
family than the sport of the chase. Lumber crews, pot 
hunters, licensed sportsmen, and well-paid guides should 
be and are more closely watched, and it seems for them 
largely that the laws are made. In spite of this illegal 
shooting, indefinite in its extent, the game increases. Legis- 
lation allows for it. Statutes enacted are based on re- 
ports of the legally killed and the living numbers remain- 
ing, not on the unknown dead. 

We New Englanders are fortunate in having close at 
hand a vast hunting country well stocked with moose. To 
the lone hunter, moving slowly through unbroken spruce 

i6 



THE MOOSE CROP OF NEW BRUNSWICK 

forest and wild barren lands — unspeakably still — the 
wooded world seems vast, though the Province occupies 
less area than the State of Maine. The habitat of the 
moose extends from Nova Scotia across the entire con- 
tinent to the timber line of western Alaska, but nowhere 
is the species more abundant in an equal area than in New 
Brunswick. It is the best and the nearest. Sportsmen 
may board the evening train at Boston and reach any 
one, of fifty good hunting grounds before the next sun 
sets. Every portion has been surveyed and hunted, and 
innumerable lumber crews at one time or another in the 
past hundred years have cut the marketable pine and 
spruce. While shooting, fishing, logging, and mining 
continue from year to year, the push of civilization is 
not a serious menace to game. The lands for the most 
part are owned or controlled by the government, the rail- 
roads, and the lumber companies. Your big game shoot- 
ing license, costing fifty dollars and allowing one bull 
moose and two deer, permits you to trespass over and 
hunt the entire Province. No lands are posted. 

For forty odd years moose have been more or less 
abundant in New Brunswick. The oldest residents state 
that in the 6o's and 70's, moose as well as deer were 
very scarce in the district, because of their constant 
slaughter by both Indians and wolves in the earlier settle- 
ment days. Hides and meat were of great value to the 
Indians of a century and more ago, who, with neither 
game laws nor thought of the future to check them, 
hunted down bulls, cows, and calves alike. But in recent 
years, thanks to those efficient game laws and the peren- 
nial feeding grounds, the game is everywhere to be found. 

To the novnce and connoisseur alike, it is astonishing 
to observe what great numbers of moose there are in the 

17 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 

Province. The lake shores and the old roads are still 
trodden with fresh signs the summer through, while 
across the early winter snows the woodsman sees the 
same familiar network of trails zig-zagging up and down 
the ridges. In skillful hands you will sight the game it- 




Straight goods 

self at all seasons under reasonable conditions of woods 
and weather. Though tracks are sure and helpful tell- 
tales, it does not mean you will straightway see your 
moose. It is more likely that you will be discovered and 
forthwith avoided before you learn that game is near. 
In order to get a proper conception of the quantities of 
moose in the Province, some well-frequented feeding 
ground should be visited in summer. We know that half 

18 



THE MOOSE CROP OF NEW BRUNSWICK 



a dozen domestic cattle can convert a green pasture into 
a veritable cow yard in one short season; but when a 
thousand deep moose-leads converge to the lake and the 
entire shore line is trodden down like a public highway, 
it is hardly necessary to see the game itself or consult the 
government reports to be convinced that the actual num- 
bers are very large. The head waters of trout and salmon 
streams, in some instances, are so continually disturbed 
by moose that the fishing for some distances below is 
utterly ruined. On a warm morning in July of last year 
a reliable woodsman counted fifty-seven individuals at a 
lonely lake in the interior of New Brunswick, and in Oc- 
tober, when the weather was cold and the feed poor, I 
sighted seventeen at one time on a large dead-water. Con- 
sidering the relative seasons, one report is of as much 
significance as the other. 

By referring to the table herewith, it will readily be 
seen that the official statistics of moose recorded, prior, 
of course, to the natural post-war revival, indicate a general 
decrease. The reports of deer taken are here included 
to show the comparison in big game conditions : 





Moose 


Deer 


Game Licenses 


Non-Resident 
Licenses 


Resident 
Licenses 


License 
Receipts 


191 1 


2,057 


2,260 


9,776 


507 


9,269 


45.671 


I9I2 


1,854 


3,061 


10,270 


518 


9,75^ 


47,026 


1913 


1,501 


2,075 


8,574 


490 


8,084 


50,048 


I9I4 


1,737 


2,705 


8,541 


382 


8,159 


44,673 


I9I5 


1,129 


2,353 


7,948 


381 


7,567 


42,764 


I9I6 


1,511 


2,826 


8,363 


453 


7,910 


44.324 


I9I7 


No Record 


>i,479 


373 


12,106 


40,626 


I9I8 


613 


1,086 


8,589 


194 


8,395 


24,7'i 


I9I9 


1,430 


2,416 


15,118 


469 


14,649 


49-475 


1920 


',596 


2,844 


15,676 514 


15,162 


56,024 



19 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 



The diminishing figures of moose reported before 1 9 1 8, 
due in some degree to the demands and effects of the war, 
are not altogether a sure indication of a gradual shortage 
in shootable bulls. Nevertheless, since cows and calves 
are protected, the bull moose is universally sought and 
killed. So persistently is he hunted, that by the time his 
antlers attain a respectable development, his escape is 
doubtful. The number of animals annually shot fluctu- 
ates not wholly by reason of the inevitable increase or 
decrease of the species, but also by such influences as 
weather conditions, food supply, lumber operations, and 
natural enemies. Deer and moose are perceptibly more 
abundant after a mild winter, while severe weather and 
deep snows destroy some of the younger and weaker in- 
dividuals, put the animals in poor shape for propagation, 
and hinder the proper development of both antler and 
body. Forest fires for the time being drive game to other 
feeding grounds, but fresh and tender shoots through- 
out these newly fertilized lands bring them back in even 
greater numbers. The best hunting sections are found 
today in territories which were swept by fire three to 
eight years ago. Lumber cuttings affect the prevalence of 
big game in much the same way. Great operations, 
blasting and promiscuous shooting by lumber and mining 
crews keep the game away from these regions, w^hich 
make excellent feeding grounds when the new growth 
has begun. Every experienced hunter knows the thrilling 
prospect of visiting old lumber cuttings and camp clear- 
ings. 

As the bull grows older and more experienced, he ap- 
parently becomes conscious of the prize he carries and 
retreats to distant haunts seldom visited by his human 
enemy. From published and verbal reports, it is evident 

20 



THE MOOSE CROP OF NEW BRUNSWICK 

that big heads are not as common as In past years, though 
the toll of this year's kill is yet to be revealed. It is 
stated on good authority that "allowing one calf a year, 
after the cows are two years old, fifty cow moose pro- 
tected for eight years would represent a total of fifteen 
hundred animals." In spite of the annual slaughter and 
other destructive causes, there appear to be more moose — 
that is, more cow moose — each year in the Province. 
But, more cows, more bulls for the future. 

We have no knowledge of any New Brunswick moose 
head which can equal in actual size the 72-inch specimen 
taken on the upper Nepisiguit Waters in 1917 by Lezar 
Russell, a native of Bathurst. The points are twenty- 
seven in number, and it will be seen by the accompany- 
ing illustration that the longest prongs and the blades 
themselves stretch out in nearly a horizontal position, 
giving the unusual width. This can be considered neither 
a uniform nor a relatively interesting specimen, and is 
inferior to several well-known heads of lesser measure- 
ment, among them the Restigouche trophy — 64I inches — 
pictured on page 8. For ten years Dr. W. L. Munroe, 
of Providence, Rhode Island, held the record for the 
Province. His moose, measuring 68^ inches when shot 
in 1907, is more symmetrical and in general a finer speci- 
men than the Russell head. The largest known moose 
head in the world, now in the possession of the Field 
Columbian Museum in Chicago, was shot on the Kenai 
Peninsula in 1889. This is a massive affair, running to 
78^ inches in spread and carrying thirty-six points. 

In judging the value of a moose head, there are several 
points to be considered in addition to the mere spread of 
horns, which is the widest distance between the tip ends of 
corresponding prongs. The judge must also observe the 

21 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 



weight, number, and length of prongs, width and thick- 
ness of palms, development of brow antlers, diameter 
and circumference of beam, and the general symmetry, 
color, and condition. To determine the width of antlers, 
a steel tape should be used and the line should be hori- 
zontal. Diagonal measurements are considered unoffi- 
cial, but if corresponding tines are not in evidence, the 
tape should run from the points that have the nearest 
relation, letting the necessary diagonal line stand as the 
result. Some authorities maintain that the fair and rea- 
sonable method is to take the widest distance between two 
vertical lines through which the head may pass in its 
natural position. 

The history of a head should be known to give au- 
thenticity to the dimensions claimed. Better still, the 
skull and horns should be preserved unmounted. If ex- 
hibited in this way, it is possible to detect any split or 
wedge in the skull, a devnce which throws the antlers out 
of their former plane, giving several inches gain in the 
aggregate. A treatment of moose horns, which is wholly 
beyond detection, is the use of a rod and turn-buckle 
forced between the blades when the head is green. The 
buckle is turned and the pressure increased every day or 
two for several months until the head is dry and its posi- 
tion fixed. When the apparatus is removed, the spread in 
the meantime has increased — and we have a "record 
head" ready for the market. Tampering with big moose 
heads to make them bigger is a practice which cannot be 
too strongly condemned. There was a time when trophies 
were bought and sold in an active market, bringing good 
prices, to decorate hotels, restaurants, and even private 
houses; but in recent years the demand has slackened, 
fortunately, until today a mounted specimen is of little 

22 



THE MOOSE CROP OF NEW BRUNSWICK 

value except to the sportsman who shot and owns it. Not 
long since a splendid head fetched eighteen dollars in 
the open trade, which is little more than a gift when we 
consider that the taxidermist bill alone came to forty dol- 
lars. 

The sad and unnecessary disappearance of bison and 
elk has been to us a good lesson. But for the laws, moose 
in turn would pass. This species of vast antiquity, the 
largest game animal on the continent, is receiving com- 
mendable protection. Across the border, Maine closed 
the moose lid from 1914 until 1919, when there was 
allowed one week of shooting. And over these near-by 
stretches of wild and wonderful timber lands, uninter- 
rupted only by wilder lakes and more wonderful streams, 
our children's children will go moose hunting. 




The poet counts his measured feet, 
And finds the sentiment profuse, 

But feels the sense is incomplete 

Without a word to rhyme with " moose." 

23 



REFLECTIONS OP A MOOSE HUNTER 



LITTLE HELPS FOR THE BEGINNER 

1. When calling moose and you find yourself at all 

timid, work around stealthily to windward of 
the approaching bull and light a Fatima. 

2. In writing the account of your trip for publication 

in a magazine, refrain from alluding to the 
moose as the "Monarch of the Forest," be- 
cause I have already used the term. 

3. If, in tra\'eling at random through the wild wood- 

lands, you become confused and believe your- 
self to be lost, return to camp with all possible 
haste for an ample supply of food and blankets. 

4. The easiest and cheapest way to avoid the mice, and 

to rid yourself of the dirty blankets, puffs, and 
boughs — together with the livestock therein — is 
to return to Brooklyn and sit on the piazza. 

5. If you hear a cow moose calling from a distance, 

make sure no bumble bees or mosquitoes are 
about before you become too hopeful of excite- 
ment. 

6. Take complete and accurate notes of the episodes 

the guides tell, so that on your return you may 
edit a book entitled, "The Bull of the North 
Woods." 

7. When watching the fishhawks in the heavens, and 

it is suddenly necessary for you to follow your 
guide along a slippery log over a wide, turbu- 
lent ri\er, keep your eye sagaciously on the 
birds. 

24 



LITTLE HELPS FOR THE BEGINNER 



lO. 



If a faithful moose hunter and you want especially 
to encounter a large bull, you will be sure to 
do so, provided you shoot a small one first. 

When your snap-shots are developed, you will doubt- 
less be able to discern, in two or three of the 
prints, tiny black specks in the middle distance. 
If you are sure these dots are not imperfections 
in the paper, it is probable they are the por- 
traits of the moose you took at close range. 

In case you are particularly opposed to profanity, 
and also happen to be troubled with deafness, 
I can give the names of several good guides. 




In following the chase the utmost cau- 
tion at all times should be exercised, lest 
the very object of your search suddenly 
approaches to attack you unawares 



25 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 



73 ASKED — 44 BID 

WE were encamped on the South Branch of the 
Renous River, forty-five miles from the rail- 
road at Boiestown, New Brunswick, and 
thirty-four from Holtville, the nearest settlement. Bob 
and I pulled out early on this clear, cool morning — Sep- 
tember 1 6, 1 9 19 — to hunt the Fowler Dead-Waters, which 
are small, elongated lakes, characteristic of the northern 
wilds. Such desolate bodies of water, with grassy shores 
and scattered deadwood, surrounded by the typical spruce 
barrens and hardwood ridges, make good moose hunting 
in the early season. Throughout the summer and well 
into the warm weather of late September, the game resort 
to such places for food and for protection from the flies. 
On the previous day we visited Big Fowler, so-called, 
and sighted nothing in the water. It was too cold. To- 
day we would push up in the direction of Benton Lake — 
still on the Renous — with the hope of getting a moose in 
the low lands bordering the stream. We jumped two 
deer in a swale en route to a barren at the inlet, and at 
11.30 A.M. we started to cross the barren. A spike-horn 
buck, oblivious of our presence, was feeding on the 
hardback at very close range. Because we needed meat 
in camp I shot the deer, and we proceeded to dress him 
off, hang up the quarters, and boil the kettle. After lunch 
and the usual noontime rest, we pushed on toward the 
deep spruce forest, carpeted with moss, sometimes known 
as black ground. Not 200 yards from the spot where the 
deer was killed, and the fire kindled, we heard the coughs 
and grunts of a bull, and almost immediately, as we moved 

26 



73 ASKED — 44 BID 



cautiously through the big trees, we sighted the dark form 
about twenty yards directly ahead. The animal evidently 
had been lying down, and now, disturbed by our approach, 
stood in a quartering position, looking fiercely in our direc- 
tion. The wind was well in our faces, and therefore 
there was no danger of his getting our scent. It was ap- 
parent to both of us that the moose suspected he was be- 
ing interrupted by another of his own kind, and his 
continued grunts meant nothing less than a greeting or a 
challenge. The antlers looked very large and white as 
the sunshine, filtering through the trees, brought them out 
conspicuously. Without doubt, it was a good head and 
the first of any consequence I had seen on this trip. 

The old confusing question arose in my mind — the 
problem that must have instantaneous solution. Every 
sportsman goes through such a brief period of uncertainty 
and knows how vital it is, since he is allowed one moose, 
and only one. Here it was but the second day of the 
open season; I was to hunt this vast country for a fort- 
night longer; moose were plenty and I stood a good chance 
of sighting a better head; but on two previous occasions 
I "passed up" good specimens, only to go home eventually 
empty handed. From both sweet and bitter experience I 
knew I must act. Little original maxims, silly but true, 
flashed through my confused brain, like: "Nothing comes 
to him who waits," and "Shoot now, or forever hold 
your piece." So I shot, believing that a bird in the hand 
was best. The bull lunged forward with a muffled roar, 
and before he could make much progress I fired a second 
time, which brought him to the ground in a state of final 
collapse. 

As we advanced to look down upon the great, struggling 
body, a third bullet hastened the end. To me the moose 

27 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 

did look a splendid specimen, but perhaps no finer, in 
character, size, and condition, than a thousand other 
trophies that have fallen to a thousand other rifles. With 
loud and eager exclamations we examined the various de- 
tails of usual interest to sportsman and guide. The frame 
was exceedingly heavy, the body in prime condition, the 
bell large and fleshy but not long, and the horns well 
matched and even, carrying twenty-two points, with a total 
spread of forty-four inches. 

In an instant, so to speak, the annual hope of a record 
head was shattered. Another season's opportunity had 
come and gone, and another average pair of antlers was 
the measure of my success. Few sportsmen go forth to 
hunt the Cervus Alces without the inherent hope of a 
record-breaking specimen in number of points and meas- 
urement of spread. We may count many moose in the 
course of an autumn hunt, and truly believe we see some 




Good specimens taken on Renous Waters, 1919, 50-inch and 44-inch, re- 
spectively. Notice how the corresponding points of right-hand head turn 
in. If they had stretched out, as in the other head, the measurement would 
have been six inches wider 

28 



73 ASKED — 44 BID 



enviable horns, but what an infinitesimal percentage are 
blessed with prize-winning results! 

In the achievement of success, I am convinced that 
mere skill is not the potent factor. It is chance. In the 
art of calling, there can be no skill in the selection of 
individuals who may answer and come; in still-hunting 









^ 


RK^^vja 


HB 


'^I^mP 




MP» 


^^^^3 


^^vl 


Warn 


^^ 




^M 






w^ 


•- ^3 


/a " ^B 


■P 


^^s^ 


1 'y^ 


Br^ 


Lyg^j^, 


Jm tR.^ i^fi-f'"j I'ii 


JuH 


■■■1 




Hf 


^^^^B^yb^fc.^ 




m 



Bob Ross literally in the act of calling a 
bull which appeared across the barren, but 
too far distant to be visible in this view 



the sportsman takes or leaves whatever he happens to in- 
tercept within his path of travel, and a track in the snow 
gives no certain indication of the size of antlers the ani- 
mal carries. Some of the keenest and best-known ex- 
ponents of big game shooting have never been credited 
with excessively large heads. They have hunted wisely 

29 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 



and continuously, with the result that the rare opportunity 
never came. To secure merely a moose, or any game in 
fact, skill, patience, judgment, and marksmanship are first 
of all imperative, but there can be no such thing as ability 
to uncover the big head. It is luck. 

On this particular morning, I started forth, as on scores 
of previous mornings, hoping, of course, that I would 
encounter a "73-inch moose." But it so happened I 
chanced upon my "44." It is true a hunter, for example, 
may know a large bull moose frequents a certain ground, 
and forthwith, at the proper time, lies in wait and slays 
the game — presumably identical with the one previously 
seen — but even in such an instance, the dimensions until 
the kill are problematical. I think of skill as meaning 
cautious hunting or good marksmanship. If you bag a 
great number of birds, you are a skillful shot, but if 
you don't meet with any, it does not indicate you are in- 
expert. 

On one occasion, in September, 19 13, my guides re- 
ported that in the region of a certain lake a moose carry- 
ing a very large head had been sighted several times in 
the late summer. It was surely a record-breaker, they 
said, and very much worth looking up. Early in the sea- 
son we proceeded hopefully towards the lake, only to meet 
en route two natives from a distant settlement, who were 
laden with horns and scalp of a freshly killed moose. The 
lads had shot the animal on the shore of the lake for which 
we were headed, and the antlers appeared to my men to 
tally with the great moose we were expecting to slay. The 
horns carried twenty-four points and measured from tip 
to tip 59^ inches. Though neither handsome in form 
nor phenomenal in size, it was a good catch and above 
the average. In this case it was not luck that the men ^0/ 

30 



73 ASKED — 44 BID 



the moose, but It would have been luck had the head ex- 
ceeded the record. 

When all is said and done, the moose is never a thing 
of graceful beauty. The antelope, whitetail, and wapiti 
are beautiful. Since a moose is a moose and the margin 
of comely grace is therefore limited, there are some of us 
who prefer excessive size to comparative beauty. The 
beast is of Old World ancestry and peculiar to wild 
northern timberlands. The largest game animal of the 
continent I like to think of In terms of great proportions. 
There is little that Is delicate and tender about the re- 
gions he inhabits; they are vast. Immense, boundless, al- 
most violent in character and appearance. The mighty 
lord of such places I look upon as necessarily big. When 
a moose is reported, the first question Is, "How large?" 

A sportsman states in all frankness that he prefers a 
decorative, uniform specimen to one of great size. But all 
the same, if the choice came between a "fair 73" and a 
"superb 44," I believe I can guess which he would take. 
He volunteers the desire for the smaller trophy because 
he knows the bigger one is a remote possibility. It would be 
too much like the dreams of a child to place the wish too 
strong. And we sportsmen have put away childish things. 



31 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 



FROM WHENCE COMETH MY HELP 

(A Sonnet) 
(^Set to music h John H. Densmore) 

Since last I trod these fairy woods and wild, 

The snows and bitter blasts have beaten hard, 
With howling utterance, against the filed 

And phantomed firs; and yet, behold, unmarred 
And beautiful they stand, triumphant — fared 

The stronger for the tempests; now their forms 
They hold erect and sturdy, full prepared 

To battle yet again approaching storms. 
So, as I launch from underneath the lea 

Of this my early manhood's winter, may 
I now withstand the turbulence, and be 

The victor, with a crown of strength to lay 
Upon my brow; and from it never cease 

To gain, as winter comes and storms increase. 




Watching moose at a typical New Brunswick dead-water 
32 



DIALOGUE 



DIALOGUE 

between youthful City Tenderfoot and Experi- 
enced Guide, upon meeting at railroad station 
and driving to back farm en route to hunting 
trip. 

City Tenderfoot. Is this Mr. Gunther? 
Experienced Guide. Yes. Ed Gunther. 
City Tenderfoot. My name is Yardley Cecil Tripp. My 

Aunt Sophie wrote you I was coming for a few 

days? 
Experienced Guide. Somebody wrote. 
C. T. She thought It would be nice if I came up and got 

some moose and deer before I go back to Miss 

Todd's school. Is this the motor? 
E. G. No, here's my team over here. 
C. T. After you ; thank you. Aunt Sophie told me that 

long ago my uncle used to go down to Maine 

somewhere to fish and shoot, but she thought I 

would get more game up here near this river. 

What is the name of it? 
E. G. Miramichi. 
C. T. Yes, Miramichi ; that's it. She saw something in 

a magazine about it. Is there much game up 

here? 
E. G. Oh, quiter lot. 

C. T. I suppose you people see wild animals all the time ! 
E. G. Yes, some o' the time. 
C. T. Do the deer come out of the woods and graze 

around and then go back? 

33 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 



E. G. They come out, but they don't always go back. 

C. T. Why don't they go back? 

E. G. Get tangled up in the wire fences. 

C. T. Pretty cold place up here, isn't it? 

E. G. 'Taint very cold in the summer. 




By discipline of divers sorts 

The guides proceed to train their " sports " 



C. T. The summers, though, must be very short. 

E. G. Oh, 'bout three months. 

C. T". I have a dandy new gun Aunt Sophie gave me just 
before I left. I haven't opened it yet, but she 
said it was a savage rifle. We must look at it 
when we get to the woods. 

34 



DIALOGUE 



E. G. Yes, I 'spose we oughter open the case 'fore we 

start shootin'. 

C. T. She said it could kill a deer at a distance of 400 

yards. 

E. G. That yoii could? 

C. T. She was speaking of the gun. 

E. G. Oh, yes, that might be. 

C. T. I have forgotten what she said it was. 

E. G. 45-90 probably. 

C T. Dear me ! more than that — nearer sixty dollars, I 

should judge, from what she told me about it. 

E. G. There's a deer! See him! 

C. T. Where? 

E. G. Over there ! 

C. T. Over where? 

E. G. See him? 

C. T. No, I can't seem to — 

E. G. Backer them firs ! 

C.T. What firs? 

E. G. Them firs backer the barn! 

C. T. Those Christmas trees? Oh, yes, I see them. 

E. G. Well, he's over here now by them birches ! 

C.T. What birches? 

E. G. There he goes inter the woods ! 

C.T. He's gone? Strange I didn't see him. 

E. G. An old Gizzer! Biggest head I ever saw. 

C. T. Didn't he have any horns? 

E. G. Yes, I say he had a big head o' horns — as big er 

head as'l come out o' the country this fall. 

C. T. Is that so ! Well, don't all the heads come from 

the country? 

E. G. Yes, deer heads, but bone heads — 

C. T. How many will make up our party? 

35 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 



E.G. 
C. T. 

E.G. 

c. r. 



E.G. 
C. T. 
E.G. 
C. T. 
E.G. 
C. T. 



E.G. 



Just three — me an' you an' the cook. 

You don't employ a waitress then ! 

Never hav^e; p'raps we oughter, this trip. 

Oh, no; don't put yourself out for me. I want to 

rough it and put up with all the inconveniences 

of camping out. Do we sleep in tents or shacks 

or what? 
Log camp. 

And the cook, where does she sleep? 
In the same camp. Her name's Jim Clark. 
Oh, he's a man. He's a chef! 
Whatever he is, he's goin' ter cook. 
Pardon me, I wish you wouldn't expectorate as 

you do. The wind makes it very unpleasant. 

Well, it was great, our running on to a deer the 

first thing. Do you really think I will get a — 

a — Gizzer? 
Oh, maybe, if we git good weather. Looks 'zif 

'twas goin' ter rain. 




The proper way to measure moose antlers 
36 



WHAT THE STARS DID 



WHAT THE STARS DID 

{From a Diary — Renoiis River, September 21, 19 19) 

THIS has been Sunday, almost all day. It rained 
about the whole time. If I had gone to church, 
and Sunday school, and prayer meeting, I could 
not be in a depressing frame of mind. A rainy Sabbath 
anywhere is bad enough — except at home. This hardly 
sounds becoming, for I am supposed to be, at times, 
rather poetically religious or perhaps religiously poetic. 
At any rate, this Is not a sermon, or a statement of creed; 
it is a diary, and if a diary is a good, complete one, it 
should contain a true record of one's spirits as well as one's 
doings. 

Very blue, slightly homesick. These casual, callous 
woodsmen are kindly enough, but not exactly consoling. 
As roommates for any one in the Theological Seminary 
they wouldn't be much, nor would they be called to a 
bedside to administer the last rites. I read. I read the 
Testament, a good novel, and a cheap magazine, and 
wrote. Then at 4 p.m. I dressed and walked up the 
Portage to shake this stewed, stuffy feeling. The rain let 
up, but the sky hung very low with heavy, gray clouds, 
and the black spruce forests looked dreadfully gloomy. 
I didn't care much for the woods or the walk — or the trip 
either. And to make things worse, a cow called mourn- 
fully from the barren below the road. For a long time I 
stood listening, but the call was not repeated, and I heard 
no answer. Two rusty blackbirds In their sorrowful weeds 
moved silently in the alders, and a Canada jay swept down 

37 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 

like a shade and laughed at me. I hurried noisily back 
to camp. I was altogether distressed over the idea of 
breaking home ties, with all their pleasant comforts and 
hibernating up here thirty-five miles from any human. 

I kept thinking of M. and the kiddies. Sunday is such 
a wonderful day at home! A leisurely, comfy time about 




Typical hunting camp on Rocky Brook 



the place, then church with M. to hear inspiriting words 
and beautiful music; a deliciously clean dinner properly 
served, and spotless little faces sitting next me, smiling 
merrily! And then people running in during the after- 
noon. How could I have been so keen to break and leave 
it all ! No letter, no messages, no news. Anything might 

38 



WHAT THE STARS DID 



be happening. Two days' march to the nearest house and 
three and more to mine. Keep on like this, the glamour 
of moose hunting will soon be gone ! If I dared, I would 
dust for the settlement tomorrow ! 

I crossed the brook and started down the last grade to 
camp. A voice suddenly seemed to be speaking — I think 
it was my own; my own inner, better, wiser self. "Look 
here, Seabury, you're a nice one to talk; you've been up in 
this country before and you knew what to expect. You've 
been housed in camp many times on rainy days with good 
old Canadian guides. What are you whimpering about? 
Isn't this the God's country you have always loved so, the 
country you have talked and written about? Get back to 
camp, put on some dry things, and have a good supper." 

After supper. Mose poked his bearded face out the 
camp door and called back that the stars were out with 
the wind in the nor'west. I went out and looked up at the 
million eyes of light, wondering at their silent and eternal 
beauty. Mose was smoking by the stove when I came 
in. "Isn't it wonderful, Mose, to be up in this great 
country?" 

"Betcher," he mumbled. 

I took a turn back and forth the one-room cabin, 
whistling "The Land of the Sky Blue Waters." 



39 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 



THE MOOSE 

The moose is very wild and big and does all kinds o' harm 
Ter people if they don't look out; but on my father's farm 
They come right out — I mean the moose — in our back field behind 
The barn and feed among the stock, and seem so nice an' kind. 
But in the woods they're different when the cows begin ter call — 
My father knows, 'cause he's a guide, and sometimes in the fall 
He takes the "sports" into his camp to try an' get a moose — 
But then's the time, by gorry ! they're skittish as the doose. 
One time — 'twas last October — a bull attacked a man 
That was huntin' with my father up on the Furginspan ; 
And father said 'twas awful, the sport got scared an' he 
Forgot ter shoot an' dropped his gun, took up the nearest tree; 
But afterwards, the sportsman said, in talkin' of the moose. 
He never saw the bloomin' thing — 'twas father dumb the spruce. 

On Sunday huntin's not allowed, an' farmin' isn't done. 

So father hugs the kitchen stove or dozes in the sun. 

But sometimes shoots at targets up back at Skeeter Lake, 

And all the week my mother gives us tenderloin steak. 

Jim White rigged up a spring-gun where moose come thro' his fence 

And cropped his pease most every night — he oughter had the sense 

To know the Baxters' cows was out ; then some one went an' told ; 

So now he's got to pay the bill fer Baxter's two-year-old. 

A Boston man stopped in ter talk, on startin' fer the woods, 

And argued with my father 'bout hauling in some "goods." 

When he come out, and layin' on the parlor couch, he said 

He ran across a dandy moose, — he had an awful head ! 

When father took me loggin' up on Batholomew 

A little French Cannuk would sing his ballads fer the crew 

About the lumber drive that squashed an' drownded twenty men, 

An' the Frenchie what got married ter the "nice Canadienne." 

One pretty ballad to the moose, we loved ter hear him tell — 

"Git out de road, we'll blow yer horns an' ring yer bloody bell." 

40 



A TRIBUTE 



A TRIBUTE 

NOT always does success mean fame and riches, 
though it may deserve both. How many there 
are who have become successful in their pur- 
suits, but, because of circumstances, or environment, or 
misfortune, never know what it is to bask in the sunshine 
of notoriety and wealth. Nevertheless, the work is done, 
though the reward is withheld. Like a bird that sings its 
heart out in the distant solitudes where no ears may be 
gladdened and no soul cheered, there are those who 
have their volumes of wisdom to give with none to profit 
thereby. 

I am thinking tonight of William Carson, of Boiestown, 
New Brunswick, who succeeded In the work set out for 
him to do. He was an authority and a connoisseur, but 
the light from his torch of knowledge reached scarcely be- 
yond the limits of the little settlement. A trapper of furs 
by trade, Bill Carson knew the ways of wild things as 
we know the habits of our own domestic animals. The 
secrets of the wilderness were like open pages to him, and 
he followed the pathless woods as we walk the streets of 
our native town. 

For sixty odd years and at all seasons, he made a cease- 
less study, in his own cunning way, of the little animals 
whose pelts gave him his livelihood. Without books to 
guide or teachers to show, he mastered the art of trapping 
his game. Bear tracks in the leaves, a moose call from 
the swamp, and feathers on the snow told plain and simple 
stories to him. Whether in the musical months of spring 

41 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 




Renous River hunting shack remodeled from an old logging camp 




The man who refused to have his picture taken with his sister, now sits 
with proud delight for the guide to snap him with his moose 

42 



A TRIBUTE 



or in the blustering winds of winter, he spoke a brief 
good-by to his people and disappeared alone through the 
firs behind his house. And when night came, wherever 
he was, there he would rest and sleep beneath the open 
sky or in some forsaken camp, happy in his wisdom of the 
woods. 

Old Bill took me moose hunting on the upper waters of 
Rocky Brook, and always I shall remember with respect 
and admiration the keen little woodsman, sturdy and pow- 
erful, with his pack and his axe moving quietly ahead of 
me through the trees. Over his ridges and across his wind- 
swept barrens he led the way, forever tireless and watch- 
ful, a man of seventy-seven years, father of nine children 
and grandfather of thirty-six. 

"The old gentleman," as they often called him, was so 
patient and kindly. The way about him was at all times 
calm and thoughtful, and his simple, Christian character 
he never wore as a chevron on his sleeve, but could be 
found and felt if you fell to talking with him, best of all 
on a quiet evening in some distant log camp in the great 
woods. 

In late October, 191 8, God sent him a clear warning. 
It was influenza. He was In company with a grandson, 
his pupil, hunting the streams near the upper Tobique 
waters. In three days he reached the settlement, making 
most of the way alone and passing one wretched night In 
an old camp, while the boy took another route over a line 
of trap. On November 7th, the Lord gave the quick, final 
call, and Old Bill slipped out and traveled the road West 
to the Happy Hunting Grounds. We shall never see 
again the Imprint of his snowshoes on the frozen lakes, 
nor find the dim remains of his camp fire on the river's 
brink, nor watch his bent figure, laden with the precious 

43 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 




" Mother and Child." The mother is one of the six rocks in the lake ; 
the child is one of the thousand hushes on the shore whence the mother 
is gazing 




" When the film is developed, if you are sure the tiny black speck in the 
middle distance is not an imperfection in the paper, it may be the large bull 
moose you took at close range." Left arrow points to wake ; X and arrow 
indicate position of object when bulb was finally squeezed 



44 



A TRIBUTE 



catch of furs, as the old man emerged from the dark 
spruces. The steel traps, the tools of his success, perhaps 
dozens in number, lie scattered and concealed by his own 
hand in the recesses of the vast country where no man 
will find them. The boy, however, was taken with him on 
that last sad journey to the north, we are told, partly for 
the purpose of learning the whereabouts of the traps hid- 
den away in this particular region; but it is doubtful 
whether he will ever be able to locate them, even if he 
follows the trade and lives as long. These crude imple- 
ments of his craftsmanship, together with the farm on 
Holtville Ridge, formed the bulk of his little estate. 

So, one life of the million that are lowly though suc- 
cessful came to its honorable close. I believe if Bill Carson 
had been asked what he would wish his heaven to be, he 
would have said, "Give me a dozen steel traps, six inches 
of snow, and woods like Canada has." 




If you don't get tired waiting, and the sun and wind are favorable, and 
a moose happens to come within range, you may get a poor picture 

45 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 



MY MOUNTAIN 

{Set to music by John H. DenSxMORe) 
There is a hill — a fragrant, verdant hill 

Where thrushes sing, 
Where pines hum through their same faint song 

Each casual spring; 
The first to greet the hopeful day. 
The last to see it drift away, 

When thrushes sing. 

A hundred softly breathing summers smile. 

And smiling go; 
A hundred white Decembers cry — and fill 

The months with snow. 
No stain of years, no mark of clime — 
Still changeless in the changeful time — 

The uplands show. 

The wrongs of life are songs, and grief is peace 

And work days are 
Sweet summer fruits, when once is seen. 

Outstretched afar, 
This forest world, so dear, so vast; 
And burning in the west at last 

An evening star. 



46 



MANY ARE CALLED, BUT FEW WILL COME 



MANY ARE CALLED, BUT FEW 
WILL COME* 

THREE bearded and bedraggled woodsmen were 
making their silent way through the forests and 
scattered barrens on the Renous. It was Octo- 
ber. One October is much like another, and the word 
alone should convey one great, glorious meaning to the 
man who has truly seen and felt the wild beauties of 
nature's autumn. To me, "October" used to spell foot- 
ball ; but in recent years the mere utterance of the word 
opens out a sudden mental picture of crisp mornings, for- 
ests of green and gold, and moose hunting. So it will suf- 
fice to state the year's month, allowing the appreciative 
reader to see in his own mind's eye those delicious acces- 
sories — the peabody birds, the clucking partridges, the 
jays, colors and clouds, moose tracks, and the whispering 
stillness of the New Brunswick woods. 

To the casual onlooker — if there had been one — these 
three men would have appeared unhappy and sober; be- 
cause they were dwellers of the wilderness. And all true 
woodsmen are silent and speechless, but really joyful souls; 
so the three men, on the contrary, were happy. In dress 
and manner they looked pretty much alike — only I didn't 
spit. In the lead strode Moses Davidson, the guide; Hale 
Reid, cook, brought up the rear, and I traveled well pro- 
tected between them. Mose carried a heavy pack, an axe, 
and a splendid thirteen-point deer head I had shot the pre- 
vious evening. Hale supported a moderate load of cook- 

* Under another title this paper appeared in part in Outrrs-Recrration, whose editors courteously 
allowed it to be included in this publication. 

47 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 

ing articles and the sad remains of what was a generous 
supply of food, while I had my usual burden, consisting of 
rifle, camera, binoculars, and sweaters. 

For one short, eventful week we had been housed in a 
trapper's camp on the upper waters of the South Branch 
Renous in search of caribou. In this hunt we were dis- 
appointed, though we sighted a few distant bands on the 
broken barrens. We readily accounted for the scarcity of 
caribou by the unexpected abundance of moose, while we 
realized the best shooting, in this section, would commence 
after deep snows in late November. Fresh moose tracks, 
signs and bookings, were everywhere evident. We 
counted from four to nineteen moose every day. On one 
occasion in the night we were aroused from heavy sleep by 
grunts and calls in the immediate vicinity of the camp 
yard. The moon was dropping behind the spruces, which 
made it quite impossible to detect whether we had at hand 
a big head or a spike-horn bull. But the great black forms 
were dimly discernible in the white light of the setting 
moon. Unfortunately, no hunter can determine, from the 
tone of a moose grunt, the size and character of the head 
he carries. 

And here we were returning from this splendid moose 
country to a point we were less familiar with, some t\^enty 
miles east. Our week's supply of food was nearly ex- 
hausted and we must needs strike for headquarters to 
replenish our larder with flour, salt, bacon, and a dozen 
other necessities. En route to the upper waters we halted 
the week previous at an old lumber camp, one-quarter of 
a mile from the Renous, w^here we deposited a good 
month's supply of eatables, and for this camp we were now 
headed. 

Inwardly I felt much disturbed to quit such a promising 

48 



MANY ARE CALLED, BUT FEW WILL COME 

game country and blamed myself as well as my men for 
toting thither such a limited supply of rations. But Mose 
declared that in this territory one corner was as good as 
another, so I determined to hunt Avherever we chanced to 
be, and return later if possible. 

As we progressed slowly in single file among the beau- 
tiful spruces and beside the solitary dead-waters, scanning 
every likely spot for a glimpse of my moose, I felt 
strangely impressed with the rare good fortune of my lot. 
"This is the real thing," I whispered to myself; "real 
moose hunting in New Brunswick!" Though each and 
every autumn, for a dozen years or more, I had found 
myself traversing the big game country of the north, 
always thrilled, always in high spirits, always comfortably 
contented, on this keen morning I experienced the same old 
joy increased a hundred fold. The great wild world about 
us seemed too full of primitive beauty for human expres- 
sion, and I hoped we might just travel on and listen to the 
silent woods. 

At a long dead-water we paused to bait and, incidentally, 
to watch two old cow moose feeding near the margin of 
the woods. At this particular season, of course, cows 
prove ever so helpful, since a bull is apt to be lingering 
under cover in their company. For more than an hour we 
watched and listened and devoured the last morsel of our 
cold meal. As if the scene before us was invisibly trans- 
formed, we all suddenly and simultaneously sighted a 
bull at the edge of the big trees, standing motionless and 
gazing calmly in the direction of the cows. The animal 
appeared quite as if he had been anchored there for the 
whole time we had been watching for him. This weird 
and sudden appearance of a moose into one's field of 
vision is often remarked upon by hunters. The beast, as 

49 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 

it were, steps from nowhere into full view. You fail to 
see him come; he is merely there. I cautiously leveled the 
glasses and decided without hesitation he would prove a 
splendid specimen. The men, eager for a look, agreed we 
should not let him pass. Hale, given to impulsive excite- 
ment, swore it was a mammoth head — the largest he had 
ever seen. 

The bull was standing nearly broadside to, when first 
discovered. His antlered head actually looked enormous, 
even at the distance of some 400 yards. It was difficult to 
count the points at this range, since they became confused 
with the twigs and little branches in the trees of the back- 
ground. For fully twenty minutes I did not see that our 
moose stirred a muscle. But when the cows, serving as 
decoys, moved gradually along the shallow water, he 
woke up, as it were, and followed with precision and great 
dignity. And then it was that the significant coughs and 
grunts began. When he finally swung about and proceeded 
head-on for a moment, I saw there was something irregu- 
lar or freakish about the horns, for now we counted 
fourteen points on one antler and few, if any, on the 
other. Hale declared, with a sympathetic accompaniment 
of oaths, that both horns tilted well back over the shoul- 
ders of the beast, and that the prongs of the off-antler must 
be hidden from view. But I had viewed the head squarely 
from the front for an instant and knew Hale's solution 
was not the case. After another hour of patient watching, 
the cows brought our moose directly toward us to a point 
not 300 feet distant, when we viewed distinctly for a long 
period the head in all its peculiar deficiency. There he 
stood before us, truly a splendid specimen, having a heavy 
muffle, a long bell, and carrying but one large and well 
palmated antler of thirteen points; the other horn proved 

50 



MANY ARE CALLED, BUT FEW WILL COME 

to be one long, irregular spike, resembling a poor caribou 
head. If the incomplete antler had corresponded to the 
healthy one in size and shape, it would have been a grand 

trophy, measuring, according to Hale, "not a d inch 

under 6^.^^ In the woods, disappointments are great and 
the ifs are many. 

By 2 P.M. we were again on the trail, expecting to make 
camp by four in the evening. A slight detour from our 
direct route brought us to a picturesque grassy body of 
water, surrounded on one side by a wicked cedar swamp 
and on the other by gently sloping ridges in ravishing 
color. When I had visited this spot in previous years, I 
was profoundly impressed with its rare beauty and un- 
speakable loneliness. Every inch of the place seemed to 
breathe forsaken wildness. How many, many times, amid 
the clatter of city scenes and the rushing excitement of 
business, I have pictured this calm retreat, tucked away in 
the very heart of the New Brunswick wilderness. Besides 
our sympathetic selves, scarcely a human soul from one 
year's end to another interrupts its eternal quiet. What 
is there of all aesthetic conditions that appeals more ten- 
derly to the adventurous temperament than pure, unbroken 
wilderness? 

The miry shores, trodden by moose and deer for in- 
numerable summers, looked like a farmer's cow yard; a 
thousand deep runways converged to the pond from the 
country round about. A cow and her calf, partly concealed 
in the long grasses, were feeding at the lower end. As 
we paused in the hope of finding a bull in the vicinity, we 
heard at our left a clear series of roars. Instantly we 
crouched where we stood, searching among the trees with 
wide, eager eyes. The sounds became more distinct and 
nearer, accompanied by the cracking of branches, until we 

51 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 



made out the dark outline of a moose headed in our direc- 
tion. It proved to be a three-year with a small but evenly 
developed pair of horns. He evidently was following the 
trail of a cow, which wound through the woods close to 
our position. He passed within fifty feet from us, with 
his nose to the ground and emitting hoarse grunts. As he 
circled around to a point well back of us, he stopped, 
sniffed the wind, and advanced in our direction, issuing 
sounds of a different tone. For a moment I was a little 
alarmed, though my rifle was ready. Under these condi- 
tions a bull moose is not always docile, and when a young 
bull has had no experience in "meeting men," as we be- 
lieved of this one, the result is problematical. The animal 
came to a halt at thirty feet, looked us over, then wheeled 
with a great noise and tremendous display of power, and 
made for the outlet. I was relieved, but hastened to get a 
picture as he entered the water. Mose imitated a cow 
whimpering, which made him stop in water to his belly, 
when I made a distant exposure. 

Meanwhile the cow and calf at such a distance had not 
been in the least disturbed. Immediately Mose sighted a 
"big bull" close behind the calf, hidden by a small tama- 
rack. I was quite unprepared for such a rapid succession 
of exciting events, for they seemed to come thick and fast 
on this eventful day. It would be useless to undertake a 
stalk which meant to penetrate the swamp. I therefore 
told Mose to give a call. It interested me to see whether 
he could entice the bull away from the company of the 
cow. Immediately the moose lifted his antlered head and 
slowly swung it in our direction. Until Mose called a 
second time the bull stood motionless, then at this second 
invitation he gave one farewell look toward his companion, 
and started for the cedar swale. 

52 



MANY ARE CALLED, BUT FEW WILL COME 

Many times Mose had called in my presence, securing 
one or more replies, and on several occasions the bulls 
came cautiously and slowly, but never coming out in full 
view, as the stories relate. But here was the most evident, 
full-fledged successful example of moose calling I ever 
heard of. Every step in the event was accomplished quite 
as if it had been concocted for the moving-picture screen. 
The beast heard, understood, and obeyed. For fully 
twenty-five minutes he was entirely out of sight, circling 
the pond. From the cruel depths of the swamp we heard 
his continuous roars and coughs, the breaking of branches 
and splashings of water. In the stillness of that rapturous 
hour of sundown these sounds were significant, to say the 
least. 

Crouched behind big stumps, we strained our eyes for 
the first sight of the great black body as it must soon 
crash into view. When it appeared I whispered to Mose 
something about the folly of shooting only a fair moose 
because it was at close range. "Suit yerself," he answered. 
"Yer may hunt two months in the country and not see a 
better one, and yer may run acrost an old son-of-a-gun 
termorrer." This was sad advice at such a moment. 

"What will we do if I don't shoot?" I asked. 

"Just yell!" 

So I made up my mind I should do what I thought best, 
knowing I could get no help from Mose. It was interest- 
ing to observe that the roars sounded little, if any, louder 
as the moose approached. That is, when in the cedar 
swamp the guttural noises seemed nearly as penetrating as 
when the animal was lOO feet from us. This point we 
had discussed on similar occasions when listening to moose 
advancing to the call, and now came to the conclusion that 
near by there is less space and opportunity for reverbera- 

53 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 

tion, whereas at a great distance the sounds echo usually 
across water or against trees and ridges. It is probable a 
bull roars louder when he first hears the call from a far 
point, just as you would make more or enough noise to be 
heard at a greater distance. Then, too, the actual position 
of the head at the moment has something to do with the 
carrying tone. 

As our moose plunged suddenly into full view, unob- 
structed by even a twig, we could hardly have had a better 
opportunity to form various conclusions. Like the actual 
kill, the mere story of It should not be a matter on which 
to dwell. By exact measurement I shot at forty-eight feet, 
and again In a few seconds to do the humane thing. 

In the size and measurement of the moose I was not 
greatly disappointed. We estimated he would tip the 
scales to better than 900 pounds, while the spread of 
horns was forty-seven Inches; points numbered seventeen, 
and the bell was sixteen Inches In length. In severing the 
head the next morning, we discovered two leaden bullets 
embedded In the muscles of the neck, which were explained 
by the men to be the doings of Bill Carson, the old 
trapper, who passed the previous winter alone In this 
region. Since we left the autumn before, no person was 
known to have visited the country, save the old trapper, 
and the bullets, according to Hale and Mose, tallied with 
the size of the rifle he carried. The moose was a superb 
specimen. In spite of the moderate antler spread, and, 
strange to say, I was not disturbed at this. The circum- 
stances under which the animal was shot atoned for any 
deficiency In measurement. To me. It was the cleverest 
job of moose calling I could conceive of. In a nutshell, 
Mose, at the height of the rutting season, drew a bull 
away from his cow to a point forty-eight feet from the 

54 



MANY ARE CALLED, BUT FEW WILL COME 

"sport." In circling the pond the moose traveled over one 
mile after responding to the call. 




Dr. H. O. Hunt with the 50-inch moose he 
shot at Burton Lake, New Brunswick 



55 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 



TOUT SEUL 

THE day broke fair and fresh and fragrant — the 
complete essence of Indian Summer. From the 
camp door the picture of the quiet lake with 
autumn-tinted ridges beyond appeared like an over- 
drawn reproduction of a water color. Weather like this, 
you are dead sure "God's in his heaven and all's right with 
the world." I rested calmly in the belief that back in the 
States the wife and kiddies were well and happy. 

It was going to be a red-letter day, I felt sure ; therefore 
I intended to spend it alone. There were a lot of things I 
wanted to get to thinking about. The business of trailing 
along through the woods behind a guide day after day in 
the usual formation becomes monotonous and tiresome. 
You follow his lead; you may neither go where you please 
nor linger where you will ; you instinctively imitate his 
movements, his caution, his speed. You almost think his 
thoughts. While this is certainly the traditional and proper 
method of hunting big game in unfamiliar ground, the 
day sometimes comes when you long to act as your own 
guide, and manoeuvre to your heart's content, letting the 
game go hang. So, today I would proceed unhampered 
and undisturbed, eat my lunch if and when and where I 
pleased, and return to camp when I got good and ready. 

The wet woods sparkled and sang. Each tree wore the 
shade of its own choice — Titian, gold, chrome, and green, 
and I was to have a good, long look, with no one to spoil it. 
In that interesting volume, "Camp Fires in the Canadian 
Rockies," Mr. Hornaday writes a delicious paragraph on 

56 



TOUT SEUL 



the wisdom of going forth to see nature alone, as you 
would prefer to call on your best girl. And I often think 
of his simile when I am with one or the other. , 

After crossing Home Lake in the canoe, with rifle, 
camera, glasses, books, and lunch, I cut through to Duck 
Lake, an intensely desolate spot. Whoever christened 
these bodies of water should be harshly spoken to. Such 
romantic and significant names as "Spider," "Deer," 
"Moose," "Long," and "Fish," are given these delectable 
retreats. It so happens there are fully as many deer at 
Moose Lake as there are moose at Deer Lake, and no 
more spiders around Spider Lake than any of the others. 
To be sure, Long Lake is quite long, and there are trout 
in Fish Lake, as everywhere else. But oh, how unpoetical 
and mediocre ! Since there are said to be twenty-five within 
a five-mile radius of camp, perhaps the pretty names ran 
out before they got to this particular group. A little to the 
northeast another couple of dozen small sheets of water 
are called after individuals who happened along when the 
cognomens were distributed. We are told Burton Lake is 
named in memory of a certain Mr. Burton, who once 
killed a moose on its shores. And a lumberman called 
Burke perpetuated his name because of the logging opera- 
tions he undertook in the vicinity of what is now known as 
Burke Lake. 

Li this general region — pretty much Anglo-American — 
we may not expect, of course, those fascinating French 
names common to the foreign settlements still further 
north. But what was to prevent making use of the musical 
Indian words, inasmuch as these woods rang with the 
shouts of Red Men for many years before Americans 
came? 

At any rate, I emerged from the spruces on Duck Lake, 

57 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 

where some early prospector must have seen a flock of 
sheldrakes and curled up in the sunshine to look, listen, 
and think. To any stray reader, it would be stupid and a 
waste of good time to wade through the endless record of 
what I saw, heard, and dreamed. But all the same, are 
not these the very things you and I and the next man feed 
on and live by? Always we are amused, if not uplifted, by 
sights, sounds, and thoughts. Our own little personal expe- 
riences, our amateur conclusions, are precious to ourselves. 
How often in conversation among people of average in- 
telligence do we hear the recital of personal narratives, 
and we all are participants in this competition of common 
talk. What happens to you is of such peculiar interest to 
you yourself that you straightway must tell it. But it will 
be surprising if your audience is as keen on the tale as you 
are. Perhaps you are not a good story-teller, or perhaps 
your audience is not a good listener, which is more probable. 
Even a child has "long, long thoughts," and Tom Hood, 
in his mature years, said he was further off from heaven 
than when he was a boy. 

At eleven o'clock, three cows and a grown calf wan- 
dered leisurely out of the woods and fed along the shore, 
getting well out into deep water. They stood at fairly 
close range, perhaps lOO yards, and by the use of the 
binoculars I could see every detail. Something of interest 
was certainly in the timber near the barren whence they 
came, for constantly they turned their heads to look and 
listen. Presently the sight that delights every hunter of 
big game came silently into view. A bull moose is ever so 
cautious at this time of year, and often gives the impres- 
sion of being little less than timid. This Individual 
studied carefully the prospects of safety before he moved 
into the open, and I am sure must have looked long and 

58 



TOUT SEUL 



doubtfully from the precious cover of his dark trees. 
Rarely do the males show fight at this or any season, ex- 
cept when wounded or cornered. We all hear tales of 
hunters being "treed" by moose. I must take such state- 
ments with much salt. Never has an authentic report — 
with one exception — come to me of a case wherein a man 
was actually forced to flee to cover. Though the experi- 
ence has not yet befallen me, I know of hunters who fled, 
to be sure, but in each case it de\'eloped the retreat was 
quite unnecessary. It is always best to consider safety 
first, but if these frightened men had stood their ground, 
the embarrassment — which looked like real danger at the 
moment — would, doubtless, have passed. Mr. Roosev^elt's 
description (5mZ?«^r'5, December, 19 16) of the Infuriated 
bull which persisted in following him until it was necessary 
to kill the beast is the one trustworthy instance I can recall. 
On one occasion, our team was making the home trip 
with our load of heads, meat, and personal effects, when a 
large bull, bolting through the woods to the accompani- 
ment of grunts and roars, halted within thirty feet of the 
horses. Fire showed in his eyes and his mane stood on 
end. With much difficulty the men were able to pacify the 
frightened team, which reared and snorted, endangering 
the whole outfit. Shouts and curses had no effect on the 
angry moose, and, since no one was armed, all hands were 
prepared for a set-to. As he plunged further around the 
wind, still wrathful and eager for battle, he scented the 
enemy and gradually subsided, moving quietly out of sight. 
The reverberation of the wagon wheels hitting against the 
big rocks, we concluded, sounded to the brute at some 
distance like the striking of horns In a battle between two 
bulls, and forthwith he hastened to the scene. The ex- 
cited horses he apparently mistook at the moment for the 

59 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 

moose engaged in the conflict. Immediately on getting 
the human scent his whole demeanor changed, giving evi- 
dence that he did not intend to rush upon the men or 
horses to attack them. I once listened to the far-away 
noises of a bull light which at times seemed as much like 
wagon wheels as moose antlers. 

But all this may have little to do with the placid moose 
I was watching from my blind on Duck Lake, though it 
indicates how a chain of memories rises up when one rests 
alone in a wild and calm retreat. My moose clearly showed 
no desire to associate closely with the cows, nor to feed 
even by himself, but stood motionless for many long 
minutes, as If keeping guard over his flock. As the cows 
progressed towards me along the grassy shore, he gathered 
himself together and followed heavily, emitting the gut- 
tural coughs so characteristic of bulls in the fall of the year. 
These sounds certainly have much meaning, probably sug- 
gesting Impatience, warning, censure, or desire. Then he 
would forget his state of mind and graze listlessly for a 
brief space. When he found himself close to a small 
tamarack he suddenly took vengeance on it, ripping the 
branches pitilessly with his horns until there was little left 
but a scarred and broken stub. The coughs were now 
roars, given out in low undertones. This way and that he 
tossed his antlered head — respectable antlers they were, 
but too inferior on which to pin my license tag — pawing 
and hooking until he put himself in a state of nervous rage. 
While, at so close a range I might rely on my marksman- 
ship — always rather average than accurate — I was dis- 
tinctly uncomfortable. To make a tranquil study of a 
docile bull moose at a distance is one thing — but to con- 
tinue the study of his delirious approach is another. I 
really wasn't scared, but developments were so uncertain. 

60 



TOUT SEUL 



Of course he had no knowledge of my presence, conse- 
quently I was sure his anger had nothing to do with me; 
but I didn't care to have him get so mad when I was so 
near. There was no chance of his getting my wind, which 
made it all the more disagreeable, for he would yet be 
sitting on my lap unless something happened to prevent. 
Naturally I disliked to have a scene, though I was inter- 
ested in staging an incident worth writing about. Why I 
chanced to be seated immediately in his path, or why he 
chose to travel directly towards me, I don't understand. 
Without any well-outlined plan of action, I instinctively 
felt that I myself should take the situation in hand, and 
allow the animal no more freedom of movement. To beat 
him at his own game was evidently what I would try to do. 
When he paused slightly to root up a little spruce, not 
further off than the length of a board of directors' table, 
I arose with great commotion, and, waving my arms wildly, 
shouted mean names at him. 

Apparently it was my turn to be angry, and I felt myself 
sweaty with rage as I started to fling my slang and slander, 
but at the sudden sound of my own voice echoing across 
the barren, and realizing the intimacy of the situation, I 
experienced genuine fear for the first time. To stop talk- 
ing to him, however, at such close quarters would admit 
defeat, so I continued my eloquence, gesticulating as one 
usually does in a heated tirade. The force of the on- 
slaught I knew would tell. The poor creature got a terrific 
jolt. His vicious conduct changed first to blank wonder- 
ment and then to timid alarm for the safety of his hide. 
Without lingering to catch the full meaning of my last 
words, he wheeled where he stood and "racked" with vio- 
lent speed into the tall timber, I know I recovered from 
my fright quicker than he did from his. 

6 1 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 

The Incident amused me more than anything else, until 
I noticed my camera lying beside me, which I completely 
forgot to use. At this I was heartily disturbed. Like most 
average amateur sportsmen, I am forever hoping to "get 
good pictures," and forever failing to get even poor ones. 
The cows, somewhat aroused, though in no haste to leave 
as their lord and master left, were standing in astonishment 
at the strange scene they had witnessed. They were now 
strung along perhaps sixty yards away. Still disgruntled 
at my stupidity, I seized and adjusted the camera, rushed 
at them across the open barren, and succeeded in making 
two indistinct exposures before they broke for cover. The 
better of the two appears, with apologies, on page 6^. 

When I had finished the business of successfully clearing 
the feeding ground of all game by my uncanny yells and 
mad dash up the shore, I sat down to eat. The morning 
had been unusual, to be sure, but if I waited in the blind 
a fortnight those five moose and probably most of their 
friends would not venture again into that cheering section. 
At all events, as I lay in the sunshine again I concluded I 
had made at least one "faunatical" observation, viz., that 
an impassioned bull moose Is not truly dangerous If you 
speak sharply to him as he approaches. 

But what retiring and harmless creatures moose really 
are ! Their first instinct is to dwell apart. Unlike the 
habits usually attributed to wolves and lions, they live out 
their peaceful days in distant seclusion, forever trying to 
avoid the trodden ways of man. All animals have among 
themselves their periods of antagonism as well as amiable 
content. We cannot blame them for their varied moods, 
nor must we feel we may slay them because they are some- 
times fierce. The brief lives of all creatures, like our own, 
are crowded with problems, struggles, and tragedies. The 

62 



TOUT SEUL 



degrees of happiness, of comfort, of health which they, 
with their own limited powers, are able to appreciate, must 
needs be beyond our comprehension. 

In considering the inoffensive habits of moose, and their 
individual privilege of existence, the claim given to all 
living things, I wondered particularly on this beautiful day, 
whether a man who shoots can be looked upon altogether 
as kind-hearted. So often we sportsmen are admonished 
for deliberately setting forth with intent to kill. Women 
in particular condemn us. If we are purposely cruel and 
hunt for the mere sport of watching death dim the eyes of 
innocent things, we deserve all and more than is said of us. 
Every sportsman I have known abhors the spectacle of 
that final moment of suffering. Yet the spirit of the chase, 
the inherent desire to bag a good prize, the consciousness 
of the legality of the sport, and the knowledge, skill, time, 
and expense entailed, all tend to minimize the heartlessness 
of taking innocent lives. Biologists may tell us that when 
pain is thus inflicted it comes in a less degree of intensity 
than we, as mortals, are able to regard it, since the animal 
is known to be neither as sensitive nor as highly organized; 
it is physically and temperamentally constituted to endure 
distress more casually, as it were, than we are accustomed 
to appreciate. While such a theory may have truth in 
it, I am sure most of us choose to disregard it as an 
argumentative excuse for causing suffering and take the 
position that any intentional injury is pitiless and cruel. 
But the sportsmanlike purpose is not to make to suffer — 
it is to kill. So the deprivation of life is the point to 
consider. 

The right and wrong of the business is a matter of opin- 
ion, of creed. The Scriptures do not forbid it; the state 
allows and encourages it. Which is of greater value, the 

63 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 

balance of the creature's life, or his mounted head? Which 
will be made happier, the moose with his freedom, or the 
hunter with his trophy? "It depends." 

Killing for scientific purposes and for food to sustain 
human life is universally acknowledged to be just and 
necessary, since both are of greater importance than animal 
life. In spite of the lawful right to kill, the pleasure of 
owning a collection of trophies, and the credit for out- 
witting wild and clever beasts, is not the pastime rather 
unnecessary to one's health and happiness? 

Never do I look down upon the lifeless body of a moose 
without the thought that the kill was really needless, that 
a life was forfeited merely for what I call my pleasure. 
Candidly, my conception of pleasure is morally wrong. 
However, I am glad, perhaps, to have taken a few speci- 
mens for the experience, and for their biological and 
scientific value; but now, like many men who have con- 
tinually Indulged In the sport for sport's sake, I am con- 
vinced there is as much opportunity for keen enjoyment 
and helpful instruction in the observation and photography 
of living animals. To secure still or moving pictures is 
more difliicult and every bit as thrilling as shooting, while 
the photographic likenesses of the creatures in their nat- 
ural haunts are more useful and significant than stuffed 
samples. By the use of the camera you get your moose, 
yet he still runs free In his native woods, and there can be 
no question of your guilt. You travel the same wonderful 
stretches of country, you live the same open life, you bring 
home the same notebook of observations, with no limit to 
the number of mementos of your success. Before many 
years I believe it will be quite out of fashion to kill big 
game hereabouts for mere sport. From the code of so- 
called advanced civilization, many traditional Indulgences 

64 



TOUT SEUL 



have been already discredited. It is not improbable that 
the motion picture machine and the camera for taking 
colors will replace the sporting rifle. The hunter will be- 
come the photographer, and the sportsman will be the 
naturalist. 

To publish compositions setting forth the glories of 
moose hunting and then condemn the undertaking as a 
sport, sounds little less than contradictory — but go forth 
annually, my friend, and shoot down with your gun, all 
told, a dozen noble specimens, and then of a quiet Indian 
Summer day strike off alone through the woods to look, 
listen, and think. 




I rushed towards them across the open barren, making two poor 
exposures before they broke for cover 



65 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 




A large bull photographed by Mr. J. A. Burgess and Mr. C. 
M. Sawyer, who made these instantaneous exposures with a 
3i X 2i pocket kodak 



66 



THE ONE DEFENCE 



THE ONE DEFENCE 

WE hunters turn from tender eyes 
Of wounded deer, and criticize 
Barbaric customs, yet we still 
Pursue our purposes to kill. 

The fascination of the chase 
Is known to every age and race ; 
The world we cannot rectify; 
The harmless with the vile must die. 

At cruelties to beast and bird 
Compassions rise and hearts are stirred; 
To slay in fairness and prevent 
Undue distress is our intent. 



67 



REFLECTIONS OF A MOOSE HUNTER 




Bull photographed at thirty feet, May 30, 1921. The antlers are well 
grown for so early in the summer, and by autumn the moose should carry a 
splendid head 




Cow moose taken at Salmon Brook Lake, New Brunswick, June 1, 1921 

68 



) 




